


the ghost on your doorstep is soaked wet with rain

by Beekurii (morningghost)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Gerry Lives, M/M, Melanie and Gerry would be best friends and no one can tell me otherwise, working through supernatural trauma while doing arts & crafts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 10:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30037599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morningghost/pseuds/Beekurii
Summary: Gerry tries his best to live a simple life: he runs a coffee shop, hosts craft sessions mostly attended by seniors, tries to forget all the horrors that made their mark on him and definitely does not engage with anything Institute-adjacent. Until one evening, when a lost and confused Archivist shows up at his door and Gerry decides to offer him tea. It all goes downhill from there.A slightly more light-hearted take on events post-s3 and beyond, featuring arts & crafts, Melanie King in search of coping mechanisms, nosy seniors and letting the danger in to allow love to come through.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	the ghost on your doorstep is soaked wet with rain

**Author's Note:**

> This can be best described as a coffeeshop AU that is canon-adjacent at best of times, so if you see something that makes absolutely no sense in regards to canon, feel free to assume it's intentional. Gerry is alive and well because I want him to be.
> 
> Obligatory "English is not my first language" and "I haven't written anything in years" disclaimer. I just really love Gerry and want everyone in the TMA universe to suffer a little bit less. 
> 
> Title taken from Keeping House by The Mountain Goats. Come talk to me [ on tumblr ](https://beekurii.tumblr.com/) if you want!

“Argh!” Jon jumps in his seat as his alarm goes off. He turns it off without really thinking and blinks rapidly, trying to find his bearings after he spent the best part of the afternoon, and evening, if he is being honest, following up on some statements regarding… well, the entire mess everything has become, really. It’s entirely too easy to get lost in the chase for knowledge, especially when time doesn’t feel the way it used to and neither does his body. Jon does his best not to dwell on what exactly all those changes mean for him, but certain aspects of his condition are becoming increasingly hard to ignore. When he mentioned it to Georgie after she expressed her concerns, she suggested that keeping a routine might be of help.

“Make sure you actually leave the place every night," she said while petting Admiral absentmindedly. Jon still isn’t sure how spending less time attempting to figure out if there is a way through is going to help, and it must have shown on his face in that moment, if the way Georgie’s eyebrows pulled together was any indication. "I’m not even asking for a reasonable time, Jon. Just, sleep in your own bed for heavens’ sake,” she said with a sigh. 

Jon didn’t appreciate the look on her face, and in all honesty, his opinion regarding the advice wasn’t much better  — he couldn’t help but feel like an unruly child that someone is desperately trying to tame. Still, he supposed it didn’t hurt to try, especially if it could serve as an excuse to remove himself from the anger and hostility that was practically radiating off the majority of the archival staff ever since his return. Martin excluded, of course, if only for the reason that he wasn’t even there, at least not in the capacity that would allow for any glaring. 

Hence the evening alarm, going off at the same time each day. He’d usually take about an hour more, reluctant to let go and climb out of the rabbit hole he inevitably found himself in most days. And if most days he also packs some work to take home with him, Georgie does not need to know about that. Once he feels like he's done enough for the day he makes his way to the exit, walking briskly to avoid as much confrontation as possible on his way to the main door.

The way back home is not necessarily the most pleasant of journeys, with crowded but lonely streets of London feeling vast and unwelcoming, only to lead him to his flat that is just as uninviting, despite feeling cramped and claustrophobic. He didn’t want to impose on Georgie any more than he already had in the past, so he convinced her to help him find a small flat that he could use to store the few of his remaining belongings and hole up in after long days at the institute. The place is conveniently located within walking distance of the institute and the rent is almost low enough to justify spending only a fraction of his time there, but to say that he hates the place is an understatement. He’s almost embarrassed to admit it, but after the days he tends to have at work, all Jon wants is to return to a place that feels warm and safe. What he gets instead is a cold and damp apartment that seems to drain all the remaining energy Jon might have; its ugly, impersonal blankness almost driving him to despair.

Jon never really cared much for decorating and making a space his own, having always left it to his grandmother with all her trinkets, then to the nameless previous tenants of his university flat and finally to Georgie, who Jon half believed to be able to make a room feel welcoming and comfortable just by the virtue of existing in its vicinity. So when he found himself alone, after all that, he never paid it much mind. He’d tell himself all sorts of excuses, starting with his initially meagre salary, the busy nature of his job or largely unspecified plans to move in the future. Truth be told, recreating the warmth and sense of belonging by himself never felt right, soft blankets and plant pots ringing hollow if there was no one to share them with, no one to look at them. Jon elected to dedicate his energy to ignoring the problem instead, telling himself that he just needed another promotion, another milestone to reach before he can take a step back and reevaluate his life. Of course, no one ever expects being put in a coma, though Jon supposes there are beginnings of a pattern. 

Needless to say, the idea of taking a step back and reevaluating his life seems almost comedic right now.

Jon thinks there is something funny about it, the fact that he cares about creature comforts now more than when he was entirely, well, human. He ponders the tentative grip on his own humanity and all the wasted time that passed him by without even noticing, and can’t help but feel nostalgic and regretful, however unfruitful those feelings may be. There wasn’t a way to foresee the predicament they'd all find themselves in and he knows that, tries to cling to the belief that there is nothing he could have done, but it’s challenging to keep remembering that when he has to face the aftermath of all his mistakes during his every waking hour, and most of the time in his dreams as well.

The cold, damp air that greets him the moment he steps foot outside the institute’s door doesn’t help shake off the heavy feeling in his chest. Although he’d never admit it out loud, today was an incredibly challenging day, tougher than most, and the reality of his situation feels more crushing than usual. As a rule, Jon tends to avoid the staff room most of the time anyway, but he especially keeps his distance around lunch time, usually opting to go make himself a cup of tea after everyone is finished eating. It was when he was standing in the empty room today that he thought he could see Martin properly again, only for him to disappear the moment Jon tried reaching a hopeful hand out to him.

Jon thinks of Martin’s voice, the faint echo of it as if speaking from the other side of the bathroom door, resolute and confident in a way that he never was before his alliance with Peter Lukas, but heavy with resignation all the same.

Has Martin always been resigned  — to loneliness, to sacrifice, to the constant nagging of inadequacy and fear? Jon casts his mind back to the times when things were significantly simpler, although Jon is forced to admit he, himself, was not. He thinks briefly about Tim, about Sasha, but it’s too much for him now, his hand twitching as he speeds up, muttering nonsense to himself, desperately giving his brain something, anything, else to latch onto. Someone gives him a weird look as they pass him by, glaring from under their generic black umbrella, logo of some company that Jon vaguely registers dancing in the corner of his eye as he pushes forward, just trying to keep moving, keep walking, as if that could stop him from thinking about how he should have been better, should have been smarter, what is the use of him if he can be outsmarted by every entity he brushes up against, what good does it all do, what....

His frantic thoughts are interrupted by a car driving through a large puddle at full speed, spraying Jon with freezing murky water and leaving a stain on his suit that he will probably need to have dry cleaned. 

Oh, brilliant.

Jon thinks about his cold flat and shudders. He stops to look around and see how far away he has left to walk and almost immediately has to stop himself from cursing out loud. The answer is — very far. Somehow he got so caught up he didn’t pay enough attention to the meandering streets, finding himself entirely too far away from home. 

And while Jon is perfectly aware that he cannot get pneumonia and die  — although he must admit it would be quite funny, if this is how it all ended for him  — he’s been carrying that deep-bone chill in him ever since his earlier encounter with Martin, and the thought of walking in the rain, drenched, only to arrive to a freezing and hollow home fills him with dread. He walks briskly ahead, hoping that he’ll come across a cab driver that will take pity on him, but he knows he looks like a mess — frazzled, unsteady on his feet and dripping with rain. Jon wishes there was a place he could sit down and pull himself together, but he’s really not feeling capable of handling a drunken crowd that is probably occupying every establishment open at this hour. 

Turns out he doesn’t need to go very far before being proven wrong. Just on the other side of the street there is a place that appears to be a coffee shop, although why it would be open at nine in the evening escapes Jon. Without thinking too much about it, as though afraid he’ll change his mind and turn away, he crosses the street and enters the shop. 

  
  


***

Gerry sighs, taking in the mess  — the yarn, sticky with glue, strewn across chairs and tables, crepe paper littering the floor, and discarded construction paper left behind by his latest group of crafty seniors. He loves craft evenings, he really does, but having to clean up the aftermath late into the evening hours with nothing but the headache that has been steadily building since the afternoon for company can make it a bit difficult to remember his fondness. 

Still, any amount of glaring or stalling is not going to magically will away all the little pieces of ribbon, so he supposes he might just get on with it. With more than a little effort, he picks up the bin and walks around, collecting the more sizable pieces of craft materials, preparing the tables to be wiped clean after. He picks up a particularly sticky piece of paper that has more glue attached to it than actual decorations and examines it closely - there is undeniable enthusiasm and artistic fearlessness even if the execution is a bit lacking, so he reckons it’s Lucy’s work. She’s been mentioning wanting to make a card for her daughter as a nice little addition to the cake she’s getting for her graduation party, so this was most likely her first attempt at that creation. Gerry wonders whether the second try was a bit more successful, but then again, it’s probably not about the actual card. Not like Gerry would know. Unwanted thoughts of both Mary and Gertrude come to mind briefly, before he pushes them away and out, not wanting to let them influence his image of Lucy or any other seniors who attend his craft evenings. 

This is Gerry’s space after all, one he carved out for himself, and he’s not willing to part with it or surrender it to any more supernatural bullshit.

Suddenly, as if to mock him, the door to his cafe opens, making the little bell above it ring softly. With a sigh, Gerry looks up and freezes. 

Standing in the doorway to his cafe is a man whose name he doesn’t know, but knows has replaced Gertrude as the Head Archivist. Actually, let’s rephrase that. Standing in the doorway of his magically protected, Archives’ bullshit immune and avatar-free cafe is a man that is not only Archives’-bullshit personified, but also well on his way to becoming an avatar, if he isn’t one already. He’s also wet, trembling and looks like a circuit or two in his brain is currently malfunctioning.

Gerry doesn’t know his name, but he recalls seeing his face in the background a few times and Gertrude offhandedly mentioning that he’s lined up to take after her in case something happens. Gerry wonders if the man is going to recognise him, or if he came to the cafe intentionally seeking Gerry out, the weight of his experience not allowing him to dismiss the man so easily based on just his appearance. 

The thing is, this should not be possible. Gerry has precautions for that sort of thing, critters from the Archives creeping in, protective magic infused into the very walls of the building they are standing in, all the terrible knowledge he had to acquire throughout his time finally being put to benevolent, or at least neutral, use. Not to mention the very specific sigils on the doormat that would prevent anyone who is too closely associated with the Magnus Archives for coming in. The same doormat that, Gerry notes, has been pushed to the side in favour of cleaning and sweeping the floor. That would explain it. 

He has enough sense to know he should kick the man out on to the street and shove the mat back in its rightful place, but a spark of curiosity that he never quite managed to eradicate makes him put what he is holding down and clear his throat, after what was possibly the longest uncomfortable silence he had the misfortune of suffering through in the last few months. 

The sudden, albeit quiet, sound, dislodged the man from what seemed to be deep thought, and he was now looking around himself with a look of weary paranoia that Gerry couldn’t help but recognise. Finally, the man’s eyes rest on him, quickly flitting down to the wastebasket now situated on the floor. 

“Oh no,” says the man, taking in the scene around him, “I do apologise.'' Gerry can practically see the information slot into place behind the man’s eyes. “I didn’t realise you were closing down. I shouldn’t have just wandered in like that.” Gerry thinks to himself that surely, wandering in like that is exactly what one should do with coffee shops, though perhaps at a more sociable hour, but he doesn’t say it out loud, trying his best not to engage with the man that he knows spells danger, whether he is aware of it or not. 

“I’ll get out of your hair in this case, goodbye. Apologies for the mess.” The man says, looking reproachfully at the murky water now pooling on the floor around his shoes, and Gerry _ knows _ he has every reason to let him turn around and leave. For once, he is as close to the Archives as one can possibly be without painting a green eye on one’s forehead, which sets off a number of flashing lights in Gerry’s mind. Additionally, it is genuinely past closing time. It wouldn’t even be a lie. 

Still, there’s a resignation and a certain loneliness that Gerry recognizes a bit too well, and the words come out before he can make himself stop. 

“No, it’s fine, stay. I was about to make myself tea and you look like you could use some. Can’t offer you any food, though, I’m afraid.”

The man standing in front of him falters for a second and looks like he wants to argue, at least for politeness' sake, but in the end he just flops heavily onto the nearest chair without saying a word. 

Alright then, he notes not without amusement. That’s Gerry’s cue, he guesses, quietly wondering if a lack of manners is in the Archivist’s job description. Leaving the basket behind, he walks behind the counter. 

“Is herbal alright?” He asks the man, pouring water into the kettle and putting it on. The man across the room from him makes a noise that Gerry chooses to interpret as affirmative, so he proceeds to set two mugs on the counter and look through his cupboard, trying to find a mix suitable for the occasion. In the end, he settles on a simple blend of chamomile, lemon balm and sage, adding a bit of honey for sweetness. 

Once that is prepared, he takes a minute to observe the strange man before he hands him his tea. Gerry has put in a lot of effort in avoiding any information regarding the institute and the curious accidents that go on in there, and has been especially successful ever since Gerturde died. Or rather was brutally murdered, his brain supplies helpfully. However, if the state of its Archivist is anything to go by, he strongly doubts things are going well  — he certainly doesn’t remember the old lady wandering the streets of London, half delirious with exhaustion or hunger, or a combination of both. 

Gerry would be amazed that the current Archivist manages to look even less threatening than a little old lady, if his life hadn’t been irreparably changed through the actions of several little old ladies, each of them a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

With that thought, Gerry wanders over to the table and sets the mug down, the sound of it making the man finally look up. 

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, reaching out his shaking hands to wrap around the mug and pull it closer towards himself. “I’m afraid I have been terribly rude. I would make an excuse about how this is not a good time for me, but in all honesty I think my manners leave a lot to be desired at the best of times,” the man continues, a hint of a rueful smile colouring his voice. Gerry feels a distant spark of interest that he does his best to ignore, as he’d like to think there is a limit to his recklessness. “Still, I really appreciate it.” He holds Gerry’s gaze for a second before nodding slightly. 

“Don’t worry about it. What kind of coffee shop would it be if it didn’t help out a stray soul once in a while? Drink your tea, I’ll just finish cleaning up.”

The man does just that, while Gerry walks around the room cleaning up the remaining craft supplies and sweeping the floor. It’s quite enjoyable, he thinks, sharing a silence with someone. 

The Archivist seems to think so as well, as his shoulders seem to relax slightly with every sip of the tea and his hands don’t seem to be trembling anymore, and Gerry even begins to hum a little tune to himself. He finally finishes his cleaning and goes to the backroom to put the broom away and make sure everything is in the right place. In the dark space he realises that he hasn’t asked the Archivist’s name yet, but the words stop in his throat when he comes out to an empty room. 

The air is quiet and still, an empty mug on the table with a crumpled up fiver next to it the only signs of the late night company. 

Gerry walks to the table and picks it up, shaking his head at the man, and if he decides not to put his doormat back in its rightful place, well, that’s his business. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
